poet runner

i left the airport
made a beeline to the future
no one was waiting
world fell asleep

woke up underground
where the fountain flows backwards
where distortion turns the keys
in my cell

scrambled my things
grew mad wings
lift off union square redemption

made a pact
we bend to our space

kissed our time
with indigo lips

poet anticipated
the proverbial misunderstanding
the petty mindset phenomenon
human escapes human?

i left a hole
in the past
for the new ignorance

Elvis Magnets

The food line is straight down main street.
All the neighbors are glad to be in a tavernless town.
The tailors and the coffee shops serve gossip
and sleeplessness to scavengers on the avenue.
There are no places to surrender silently.
The counter girls are beautiful
and the old man behind the cash has a book.
He reads all day behind the display window,
knowing full well the sun will lighten his load,
just like a good idea: the likeness,
t'is Elvis in his youth.
The magnets are made to be display on a fridge.
But I have them in my room:
a reminder of past fellowships,
an echo of some good intention I beget,
a reminder that I once was in the mix.

'... the Soul Hunts

What black wolf waits
in the grove? He does not
tire of waiting. And so
not unlike my soul, he crouches

down and listens.

He is not alone but is
alone; his purpose joins him
to his pack. My soul a shadow
to other shadows cast and breaking

loose to capture what is found.

turkey hat


three gorges:
once gorgeous mouths

sails travelers floods silt
slow words flowed muddy
prospering with phosphoring organisms

patti still pours mapplethorpe's
ashes through her fingers

two losses: you and the song
all that I feared comes to pass
ashes and bone bits sink
into stagnant water

I thought he had to be alive
to do that slow fuck
muses do

turns out
you can fuck yourself
use energy from the past

for awhile
how long depends
on your obstinacy

flow of inspiration a memory

the mouth dammed
wet concrete

slathered over the lips

no poem today
or tomorrow

deaden d


upward climb


All through the dark ran
little feet of darkness;

for every star a black
footprint. For every

shadowed step a toenail
of lightness. We dreamt

of wings rushing towards
the flame and called them



Substantially plump Beck Madigan intoned, ‘Jesus to God almighty, move from the stairwell, my dear man, I abjure you, ex pluribus dais!’ Razor stropped and held aloft Madigan rinsed the washwater from the crone of his face and smiled, ‘Tis a day for mollycoddling and slight-of-footing, be cautious, dear men, to sidestep poor recently deceased Passy’s gravestone, in lieu of flowers, a nice tardy so long bastard son reeves of alcove and drudgery.’ McCurdy, eyes pilaster and crossed-over to either one side or the neither, tossed a sapper in-line over the tops of their heads, saying as he did, ‘Adman has a footing, now isn’t he the Arbuckle, not a tosspot to pee in, in conservator-diem’. Mrs. Bloomingdale, vilestone of putt and mercy, wren’svoice stoked and ready, warbled on the count of never, deafening devilfish and arbours alike, a picket of crisps in the wayside of her hoopskirt fob. A cheer and hoopla was overheard from yonder widowsill, Mrs. Passy in mourning frock sidestepping her poorly deceased husband’s freshly limed cesspit grave, arms akimbo at her sides, Beck Madigan, fleetoffoot, tossing nosegay into the snotgreenscrotumtighteningsea said, ‘ex pluribus sepulchred, leave the dear man in peace and rot’, leaving not a dry eyesore in alehouse or vicarage.

Once Torn

I have given you reason
to turn back; no one
likes himself in the past.

Even nature re-visits
itself, attentive to
the weather's cycles-

a tulip bulb sleeping
unencumbered by history.

You should have loved me.
O how you could have
loved me! Like the blade

of a knife, like a machine gun
on the battlefield.

But this is not paradise.
And though the wolves are
beautiful and tender,

their teeth are not strangers
to their victim's blood; once torn
almost always eaten.

Dear Sir

Into Brightness

Of the garden (what garden
fulminating weeds) where once
was frail sprout, white rose
shaded by paternal oaks-

my soul shriveled by heat,
by absent hands and rusted
tools. The metal tongue
of dirt and ore sucking out

life's thick, green fluids;

darker fingers still, shred
the vines, a trellis to another
world. Of memory the plump faced
moon looks down through fog
and rain as if it were a quiet shell

poking through the ocean sands.

Of the garden shimmering in darkness,
beneath its sad and silent eyes,
a seed begins its journey into light
and so my soul climbs its ladder

into brightness.

Long Sentence

Legislated marsh, with wind across a moment finding torrents of last hour battering some compost and the organisms under a rock, till the chill refers to some class of registration, the sun almost over the trees but untouched, a drill into the same trusting note of change, poised for a the fall of leaves into the full sky, marking a history that rolls, powered by increments of colour turning toward brown, all in an enclosed figure set, each item named as seen, like a crow whipped in the air current, a squirrel tuned to the nature of rock, a rabbits brighter in force than a planetary bee, all such facts rippling inside the need to talk about them, remaining underscored and drastic, dating the pieces with reverence, now a year in another day, now another day for a year…

Poésie frontale

L'expérience, ainsi que les vérités issues de certaines traditions nous disent que le comportement humain peut être modifié

Experience, and truths from certain traditions tell us that human behaviour can be modified.
And I'd really like to believe that. Will we persis as a group in our destructive activities as those for which we are globally responsible?
I rather think so!...
Et j'aimerais tellement y croire. Allons-nous persister en tant que groupe à des activités destructrices telles que celles dont nous sommes présentement globalement responsables?
J'en ai bien peur!...

The Sound of Disappearance

What is it that holds you back
from me? I was already yours,

waiting to hear your voice
in a sea of voices, to know

your face as if it were my own,
each habitual trace of your body

an enduring memory.

Now everyday you are moving away
from me, a great bird disappearing

into a halo of cloud; the last sound,
the final sound (I cannot say yours or mine)

a call, a cry or howl.


see the washman, under the snow
takes me back to the rage
of walking on the dime, that river
strolling to the rocks, the ungodly,
the house was strung on the bluffs
the washed nature of memories.

mind fill the house with dislocated
purpose. that image mezmerizes.

("you got a plughole—I'm not looking at anything")


quelqu'un lit et il écrit, someone reads and he writes, quelqu'un lit et après il écrit, someone reads and then he writes, quelqu'un écrit et il lit, someone writes and he reads, quelqu'un lit, écrit, relit et récrit, someone reads, writes, re-reads and rewrites, et quelqu'un ne fait presque que ça, and someone does almost nothing but that, quelqu'un ne fait presque que relire et réécrire, someone does almost nothing but re-read and rewrite, sans arrêt, incessantly, et tout ça ça fait des textes, and all that results in texts, et tout ça ça crée des textes, and all that creates texts, quelqu’un lit, écrit et il crée, someone reads, writes and creates, et ce qu’il crée c’est un texte, and what he creates is a text, ou un poème, or a poem, ou un livre, or a book, ou de la prose, or prose, on s’en fout comment ça s’appelle, we don’t give a toss how we call it, ce qui compte c’est que ce quelqu’un crée, all that counts is that that someone creates, et quelqu’un ça attend personne pour relire et réécrire, and someone doesn’t wait for anyone to re-read and re-write, on a attendu personne pour réécrire sans arrêt, we waited for no-one to rewrite incessantly, et des fois on lit et on réécrit ce qu’on a lu, and sometimes we read and rewrite what we read, et des fois on lit et on réécrit ce qu’on a écrit, and sometimes we read and rewrite what we wrote, et des fois on se dit « merde! ça a déjà été écrit par un autre en zoulou! »,and sometimes we say « shit! this has already been written in zulu !», et après quelqu’un dit que quelqu’un est un traducteur, and then someone says that someone is a translator, et quelqu’un dit à quelqu’un qu’il écrit, and someone tells someone that he writes, qu’il s’en fout de ce qu’on l’appelle parce qu’il crée, that he doesn’t give a toss what we call him because he creates, et après quelqu’un d’autre dit que quelqu’un devrait lire machin et machin et truc et qu’il verra, and then someone else says that someone should read such and such and thing and he’ll see, et quelqu’un dit qu’il voit tous les jours et qu’il voit ce qu’il veut, and someone says he sees everyday and sees what he likes, et quelqu’un écrit qu’en écrivant someone il aurait dû réécrire quelque chose de différent, and someone writes that in writing quelqu’un he should have rewritten something different, que ç’aurait été moins chiant, that it would have been less shitty, plus marrant, more fun, et puis quelqu’un relit réécrit et se tait, and then someone re-reads rewrites and shuts up, pour l’instant, for the moment.



Red, white,
Get used
To it.


I can't remember...

Free Collage Art

Fear of Drowning

And what if the book and the pen must become my only lover? What if no one else will be able to… love me this way… make love to me this way… with the power of such feeling?

(a thousand valiant horses pounding on my brain, dizzying sex like opium or headlights, flushed breath, insane noises, all flock towards me… eaten by birds)

A deranged spinster in an attic flat filled with birdcages and Venetian death masks, radioactive rocks and black and white Audrey Beardsley pictures? Muttering to herself, giving herself completely, surrendering all she is, legs akimbo, a sad hallucination, all adoring to her art?

Is this horrifying beauty?
Is this the only way?
Already, no one sees me for dust these days.

Who can match up, how can I match up any more

when I am an overgrown forest, a babbling brook, an overcast shadow, a yellow crab with pincers, a veritable feast, unknown still, misshapen, god, who will take me with so much emotion?

Too many tectonic plates moving, sliding.

I got Ethiopia in my twisted right foot, full scale blizzards in my cheeks, aurora, red, snowdrops, a wealth of peonies, fickle shadows, black legions of marching men, all tramping through the silent place where pleasure soars and danger beats (it’s here, sniff, the light between my thighs)

My writing voice is that of the wizened and post nubile.

Anonymous, androgynous, without form, shape, breasts.

Take me out of this place and I’m ceasing to know myself again.
Alien to me, with my lustrous hair, fingers soft and simple, and they still call me a beauty.

I shed her in these blank pages, dead as a door nail, voiceless abandon in a ferocious wind, graceless.

Such freedom tears me, all abrupt, seeking triumph, absolution...to be faceless.

I fear total submersion in my own rivers, death by drowning.

Rote Rot

Along the ridges of loose jeans
folk singer spills another meal.
Food is
good for thoughtFont sizeand all the singers want a chance
to mend a melody without stating the obvious.

Rote is rotting like a demension of inner peace
that longs to celebrate the eternal.
The wheel of seasons brought to the next,
over and over again like trees dropping fruit.

One hand makes a sound,
even the smallest atom screams
for the sake of the others.
Some binds are harder than softer.

The collisions come and go,
each occasion a chance to start anew.
Why barter with a repeat engagement?
Suffer the specter of other useless pleasures.

Rote is the method behind the madness.
That's why the mad return to their dementia.
It is easier to be familiar with the misshapen,
than to parody meaning out of random passion.

Bound together like beads on a string,
the time to learn is something new rendered old.
Repeat the following mantra:
Tarry not until I come, the beginning has no end.

Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes

The other day (the one preceding today) I saw a woman who looked like Nikolaus Karl Günther Nakszyński (Klaus Kinski). I could have easily mistaken her for the great German actor, the principal star of such films as Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes, The Secret Diary of Sigmund Freud, Nosferatu a Venezia, Les Fruits de la Passion, Burden of Dreams, Kinder, Mutter und ein General, Ludwig II: Glanz und Ende eines Königs, Um Thron und Liebe/Sarajewo and Morituri, had she not been wearing a long woman’s-coat and smoking a Virginia Slims.

The other day (the one before today) I saw a woman who looked suspiciously (or was it conspicuously?) like Carl Adolf von Sydow (Max von Sydow), the star of such films as Det Sjunde inseglet, Fröken Julie, Smultronstället, Nära Livet, Jungfrukällan, Älskarinnan, Svarta Palmkronor, Il Deserto dei Tartari, Ingenjör Andrées luftfärd, Le Cercle des passions, and Bara en mor (Only a Mother). If it weren’t for the fact that she was wearing a leopard-skin jacket, a lilac-pullover and an Ushanka propeller cap.

I saw Carl Adolf von Sydow, face reddening, steadying a piece of wood, a shim or a shingle or a truss, as Karl Günther Nakszyński hacked away at it with a broad-axe. The two men, principal actors in they’re own right, were gabbing to one another in German, a Teutonic banter that was ear-deafening. At one point Carl turned to Karl and said, whisperingly, I bet I could beat you at chess, to which Karl said, ‘and I you at staying afloat on a beanpole-raft with a thousand-and-one monkeys’. ‘Would I have to wear a helmet?’ asked Carl. ‘Only if it rains’ said Karl, ‘and then it’s up to you whether to keep it on or not’. The two men, Karl and Carl laughed, shook they’re feet in the air and went back to sawing, Carl steadying, Karl hacking away.

Big Bang Gros Bang

Le salon n'est pas encore
The living room is not yet
Totalement plongé
Completely dark
Dans l'obscurité
La plus grande découverte
The greatest dicovery
Du siècle caduc
Of this forgotten century
Ne vaut pas une heure
Is not worth an hour
De véritable souffrance
Of real pain
Voilà pour l'histoire
So much for history

Par une raison
For a reason
Non falsifiable
Impossible to fake
Toutes les espèces
All of our species
Sont sur le point
Are on the verge
De disparaître
Of disappearing
Selon source sûre
Ce n'est qu'un début
That's just the start
Une philosophie
Of a philosophy
Campée d'espérance
Based on hope.

Against the Tide

Gravity pulled the book
to the floor. Even words
are bound by laws; the teeth
of adjectives and nouns
biting down on paper.

To burn a word, a branding
on the heart, this word defies
erasure, floats on blood,
knows no up-or-down or trips
or falls. Is it our fault

that love will kill us; have
you seen a dead bird fly?

With ink, we write the feathers
of the wing: a mountain top,
a steel-blue sky, a cloud to pierce,
a draft to climb and dive,
a moment when the journey down

turns against the tide.

the endless

The Seventh Circle

How much longer will we search? All night,
the blackness cherishes its splendid gifts-

the spotted owl, the thin and hungry wolves,
white-skinned birches where bobtailed deer

graze on clover. But we are kept from paradise
cradled by what-we-are-denied: knowledge of

the light, acceptance of the darkness.

In an open field, at dusk, a falcon hunts
for mouse or rabbit,without a sign, he circles

round and round. Somethings that are hidden
were never meant to be discovered.

Still Him at Your Breast

hip bones ache with loneliness,
press your ear to the flesh;
listen to them weep.

Thoughts dissolve slowly
in a vase of murky water;
the last and only flowers ever bought
turn to dust and fall into my mouth.

These hidden messages go unseen.
I intricately weave them to my heart,
suffocating the very life,
the weak and staggering beat that is left.

You look at me - your lingering ghost;
a haunting that you cannot exorcise from your body,
your soul.

Naive thoughts of love have long since suffered a corruption
Once the conductor of my happiness;
a symphony softening my hardened parts - the years of building my fortress.

These memories can never be undone;
my heart will not flourish and burn with passion.
The desolate lands that have spread like a July wild fire
leave me bleak and hesitant.

Hard frost

Overbalancing season's
seismic aura shudders
through troubled dreams
of longer nights
lower horizons
wider skies
and twisting
black shadows
of southbound wings
flickering across
hills and hummocks
of hardening earth.


Shake 'em
With your
Run around

Power of Denial

Hushed with lips hiding violent secrets;
you dressed me in her clothes,
licked the shell of my ear - her name stuck in your throat.
You've lingered for too long in the past.
Tongues that find their way over vast distances,
but you are desire bound.
So my feet drag on, in the endless desert
of your heart.
I want to come home.
Honesty like a sobbing woman.
Courage like a dying man.
Hands that hush my nervous nature -
Hands that never lie, wash me like a
river does a rock;
Soothes my hardened parts.
I want to come home.

diffuse hydraulics

Agricultural no man's land / blood on the chest / the intestine of a small animal squeezed out / coiled like an embryo / slinky cat in window / eyes fluoresce / sliding images speak / a loss of visual contact but still talking / her violence framed in pigtails / my inanimate face / blank documents / shredded addresses / her fist tender / beating out colours / red / blackening yellow / cheek illuminated with pain / light / a grin breaks out across her face / thin lips buckle into a sneer / my fingers are snapped off / planted in the earth of a pot / digital foliage / stumps squirting ripe / dripping flower spots on concrete / rippled / dry and white / a fountain of noise from a machine / fragrances of burnt fuel / her fist blooms into a slender fan / trickling before her face / coquettish / look at mine / look at your four stumps / are they sour / they taste air raw / languid sightballs roll into her words / upwards into my head / showing whites / scl-erotic / dribbling a little / wipe mouth with ghost fingers / rouge my cheek / faint into orgasm / into black solitude / subconscious / she dresses me / her doll / a barbwire choker / iron christ jewellery in palms and feet / stinging steaming urine… sometime later / I awake into a death / head propped against the connecting hydraulic arm of a square bailer / lick at its dark brown globs of grease / her shadow flits about the shed / passes over circles of bird shit / sparks my conscious wake / my wait at her fingertips…


Because I love you, the night
disobeys its hidden God, makes
my hands immortal though they hold
the fire. We are grains of fire
crackling to ash. And while

I loved you, the moon became
a jealous eye, a jilted planet
whose beauty was extinguished
by our glowing bodies; what galaxy,
what whiteness shares our wounds?

When darkness comes to kill us,
eats the energy between our thighs,
our mouths, our eyes, a fallen star
travels across the sympathetic skies
and leaves a brilliant arc.


It's hard to stop
the catapult towards mercy.
Would I be inconsequential
if I were sin-less?

While the spirit knows
who is responsible for grief,
I have forgotten history,
the root, the seed, buried

beneath the symbols.

Of blood and nerves,
I laughed, I danced, listened
to the red-bird singing from
such a distance like blood

leaking from its deep incision.

Now I lie in waiting,
the peace of sky, the rippling
blue-painted pool of ocean creasing,
a worried brow; and I am

solitary, ceaseless,
lifelong dreaming

of being born again.

Alexander & the Jains

On his way down from the Kyber Pass, perhaps in the holy city of Taxila, Alexander gathered to his tent ten wise men whom Plutarch calls Gymnosophists. They were probably Jains. The Macedonian emperor questioned them under pain of death and said that he who gave the worst answer would be killed first. Here are the questions and their answers:

Which are the most numerous, the living or the dead?

The living, because the dead are not at all.

Does the earth or the sea produce the largest beasts?

The earth, for the sea is but a part of it.

Which is the cunningest of beasts?

That which men have not yet found out.

What argument was used to Sabbas to make him revolt?

No other than that he should either live or die nobly.

Which is the eldest, night or day?

Day is eldest, by one day at least.

What should a man do to be exceedingly beloved?

He must be very powerful without making himself too much feared.

How might a man become a god?

By doing that which it is impossible for men to do.

Which is stronger, life or death?

Life, because it supports so many miseries.

How long is it decent for a man to live?

Till death appear more desirable than life.

Then Alexander turned to the tenth man and asked his judgment of these answers.

All I can determine, said he, is that they have every one answered worse than another.

Then, said the king, you shall die first, for giving such a answer.

Not so, O king,
replied the gymnosophist, unless you said falsely that he should die first who made the worst answer.
Am Always Coming Out To The City

something in my genes
compels me to count the letters
of the words in my eye
shackles me to tired information
bleeds the adjective
even before my mind speaks

something borrowed
garbled hip hop language
am always coming out to the city
before the beat knocks on the door.

my rapidly vanishing religion

2 reasons 2 urry up while ur @ it

mesopotent paradisiac


while (inside)
the outside is code
the code is outside
the outside is coded
the outside is coding

so we bleed


in between moments
your body will be beaten
by bats spreading their wings
on the inside

& your thoughts will be crushed
by heavy traffic
between your thighs

in between moments
our eyes will have eaten
each other
a billion times

& all your rats will
have started free arts
on my most distant stars

so wrap it up will you
i've got a few thousand others waiting
squeezed up inside my balls

dreak day in dundee

Deep blur / highly defined / pixellated khaki / fatigues / the soldiers appear as digital glitch on the interminable screen that covers every surface of the world / pregnant scenes belch babies into realities / into soap operas / placenta cross fades into terrorist explosions / the soldiers dodge into the happy crowds of adverts / reach out arms / extended with jagged knifes / slash / cut into the bellies of the obese / let loose the half digested spoils of war / slinking back into the screen / glistening red wet knife merged into bodywork of silver car / stomach contents steam into images of the rainforest / facial labia gloss over in the sky / pout / smile / insurgents in her teeth open fire with handheld projectors / somersaulting humvees crash into dust / into crowds of hapless shoppers / low resolution soldiers crumple to the ground next to the municipal urinals / an improvised video device explodes / the resulting feedback wipes the cerebral harddrive of a passerby and severely corrupts a number of others / they bend and spew from the mouth and ears / memories / holiday imagery / their favourite fuckloops / a voyeur / a vicariaste scoops up the digital slop and quickly squashes it into his eyeball / headfuckrush / unknown people and visual anecdotes glide into his friends list / a terrorist lets his camouflage slip / head exposed in all its reality / poking out the side of a piece of meatcandy between two lumps of bread / I’m lovin it / soldier zeros’ in / fires / obliterates the enemy usb compatible headbulb / the headless body stumbles now heedless / stomach speaker emitting death speech / an antenna secreted in the anus fires out finality texts to family / already in mourning / who were watching the attack live from his eyebubbles / the soldier uploads his kill / four more for promotion / just one more for a weapon upgrade / a distant German hacker tracks the soldiers ip and converts his kills into nectar points / one day he’s going to tell the world that it was a liberation / getting a real time paedophile for 1600 points / bouncing grenade detonates / ejaculating price cuts / bargains / eternal sales fluxing across the screen / children skip through realities viscera / through the smoke and corporeal detritus left by a shimmering suicide bomber / the screen flutters into blackness…


Inspiration arrives in many forms; why
is mine elusive? Perhaps I do not stop
to look at trees, immune to nature's guile
and grace. Won't you make the rose desist
and drop her poignant beauty; imagine all
the dreamers she would fail!

But you, my little moth-sized bird, you're
neon glittered throat, your vibratory wings;
you are just as fast and brief, nearly hidden
by magnolia stamens. You and I grow wild,
grow secretly into our favorite flower; not
a shadow or a petal misses our departure.

map of the kindness of strangers II

all that mattered

Ballad of Tarquino

My love, my love where did you go
The cold winds of lost love did blow
You left me beneath a blanket of snow
Now my memories are filling with woes
And by my memories am I held low

Well do I remember when I held your form
Well do I remember how sweet and warm
To be wrap in your arms against the storm
That called our love deform
When in fact our love is of God’s norm

Then you was my man to my heart born
And with true love was we adorn
But our love by time finally torn
Sweet love torn as if by the Jerusalem thorn
To love no more I have sworn

Time have not heal the wounds love lost made
Lost love linger in me it dose not fade
Love lost memories must be paid
Memory itself is like a shade
None took heed and came to my aid

Bitter is my memory of love labor lost
From my heart it must be tossed
Till all bitterness is paid its cost
For new love itself will defrost
The bitterness I have come to doubt and with happier thoughts embossed

The happy memories that I do hold
Are fading fast as I grow old
But I well remember that our love was bold
A love lived by many but gone untold
Memory itself by time will be cajoled


Poetry has yet to emerge;
my life! where have you been?
This song I sing is not for
the faint-hearted; suicide is not
for children. O where has my beauty
gone? When will I be crushed,


This is the long hallway to
another hallway; a staircase
down to further down. How I
remember the snow's descent
from higher beginnings- some
call it drifting.

Have we forgotten that God exposes
pieces of Himself; a sackcloth of posies,
a naked ray of tumbling light,
the wind-bruised bird diving wildly
through an impossible depth.


One-Eyed Man

I have a theory; the female
is invented. Like strings or
particles, the body quantum,

the curve of hip, the white
nest of skin, the animal eyes

grown accustomed to night
like the surface of moon.

Understand, men are cumbersome,
gravity, a heavy hand, dark rapid
heartbeats followed by apnea;

selective creature, a form
of death. One-eyed man,

he holds her anonymous face
in his hands as if he loved her.

His head was 40% volume


Twin Mystery Verbs

Fajarowicz gathering
ajar · uaineas crisply brought
owl-light wisps across azure
ignoble fall

Cthulhu chirg · festoons druid
rill's indigo · ignoble
fallout ajar · lampoon crink
Culhwch ballast

Cracked and Blue

When you greet me, remember
who I am. Because I hold
myself for ransom like a bomb
or tightly structured as

fibers in a crystal

does not mean that I am
ruined. You're such a child
all fur and feathers, a cloud
with bullets in its head.

When I am private, cold
cracked, corrosive, blue
put my body on the coals
to heat my bones.


My friends,
Aren't you glad
You're not

Plastic Ruler Wood Ruler

Our family went shopping for school supplies one Sunday at the local shopping center. I noticed that plastic rulers cost more than wood rulers even though the wood ones were nicer and I thought that maybe it was because the plastic ones were longer.

Sneaking Suspicion

Just to let you know that ninjas make it happen. Oh gosh, those silent clothes they wear, and swear to be skillful. They hike up the clouds and reverse all directions, just to stick a pin in an improbable map. Once that pin is planted, tho, you see the point of their effort. That map is Tom Cruise's nose, mostly glorious. Tom's smile is a vanquishing, with a salute to the other props kept neatly in the parlour. Where will Tom point his nose, in future days such as these? Let's try to make the summit, wherefrom much can be seen. Well, actually, the sum of our view is the tops of clouds, as sturdy as your thought. Remember your essential day, when you could stand on those clouds, even the surly tall ones, and bridge a world or two? When did that act lose its political side? We've got Everest in our hands. It purrs, so small in its geologic niftiness. Mallory and Irvine are the nicest of statues, dedicated to the preservation of the last whatever on the list. They took ninja to the laundry and bobbled the edge of crevasse with such a peer group sense of comprehension. In their deaths, well, it took time to draw us in. Now it has become national, right on those Everest slopes (Everest no longer wants sacredness in its tribe). There's a dusting of snow on our heads now, 17 feet high. The ninjas have decided to help. They've made the shadows white.

last March at the Federal Building

my crystal steropticon’s fallen short of sending
the right images to your left eye.
rapid response to promises generally stick it to
bright-eyed technicians burning
in some grey room in a federal building. how
does perception of sunlight
play into the birds’ singing when April’s faded
photos go 2-dimensional?
it’s trees muscling their way—roots-and-all—
onto the LED screen, beneath
the tracks, up north behind the cabin, and up
wind of Gorilla Island at the zoo:
“Comrades! Shall we deny our natures,
refusing to chase bright
green tennis balls around the pen?” the other
gorillas eyeball the speaker with
pent-up resignation. there has been no simian
Karl Marx. even so, winter
must yield to uproarious springtime yet again.
the trees whistle like large land
mammals. the train pursues its next destination
like an eyeless journeyman with
cracked fingers and a stick that plies the roadway
through a fog of time just this
side of urban singularity. passion should put an end
to anything more decadent,
should put on more deoderant instead, and the clock
pontificates with its hands pointing
west, even as the soil shakes off its last image from dusk
to night before. no surge of vision
to spot in all this endless mindfulness. hasn’t sameness
run its course at night yet?
Sachsen-Weimar is in the East, which is red, and timed
to go off when most of the
population’s asleep—too bad for them, when it’s all
cold and nothing to see and
a snow alert passes itself off as a ghost with cracked
eyes made of crystal. more
chocolate selves go to sleep with such a ruckus on
than escape the hampers of fate,
their rusted shutters groaning together, hold fast
for all time, happy to suck honey
or at eggs like some domestic bear-goddess whose paws
rend wet laundry as she takes it
out of the washer. where once was a hamper, now comes
the point in our program for
a blue-grey kind of alliteration. nobody waits for the
Ambassador of Antecedence
anymore. stuck fast to the rolling uncertainties
of dilemmas and resolutions.

Time Line

Now it's done; the direction
of a body shoved through time.

Gravity, the stress of beauty,
feet walking barefoot on a bed

of thorns, muscles of a mouth
tense as rope, the optic nerve

gulping light, beads of light
running down its fleshy throat.

Look back. Pull the reins.
The clock is running fast,

very fast. See time run. See
it burn. Here is the shadow

where we were born. Here, tails
of light curving through the sky.

There, at the end, the teeth
of total darkness tears apart

its offspring.

E pur si cambia

In Arcadia, I am
Waiting for the light to change
Green into red forest to fire
Summer not summer
Light that changes in the moment I look
And my before has flown
And there is no rift! No temporal crevasse
There is only this point of
The body wanting what it wants, now
Waiting for it
The kind of story we have been waiting for
My friend she has newly rejoined me she thinks we will go on as before
And I will again be made to diagnose ills
Miss Insight that was, sadnesses' mistress
How can she think this
The boy with the narrow hips
Has become someone different
His space in my brain his place in my body is
Assured guaranteed non-negotiable and yet
He's gone I can't have him I'll have to have others
Pull you into my lap
Now this man was also his beauty
Not, beauty not beauty, but
Does it, do I, will I change
Red into green
Words are shapes, too
The beauty of them breaking hearts and ribs
In moving frames I see
The light, on, off
A man and a woman on a bicycle, laughing
And I'm watching another
His body a reed that leans
White birds circle his wrists
No, it's his shirt cuffs flapping, mid-song
And he is a poet singing on stage
And his chest is bare of prior association
And yet it does change

Opulent Thunder Lump with ANISTON

I'm the captain of a composite wing
and I hate the books of reading

a large spooky dog in the
window watches the action

Taste Gustav the guru of gunnery
if you did not succeed in repairing
the things that you have carried
to my attention

remember me, I pray, and
have patience

The objective of Jennifer
Aniston's life is to kill
all the "surface inhabitants"
only to blanket to the last
minute some meddlesome kidskin

Anyyawn, new "to the interview" where
"alchemist's can happen," and not

does it really import that we have
laughed if honestly we took
bad care of ourselves? Jennifer
Aniston has been called Man
of the GQ human children year

usually is supposed to be similar

Which thing is in with the
bathed point of J.An' s crotch zone?

Arrest the puhleeeezzzz of those tendencies...

Because We Are Inside

But yesterday, the weather
was of heat and sweat, heavy
wool, the air stood still.

Today, the winds swoop down
chilled and urgent, small
spattering of rain tapping

on the terra cotta roof.

Inside, I build a fire;
I have the right to mourn
what can't be saved or changed.

It isn't easy to ignore
the darkness, blackened clouds
or ravaged trees, but here within

the man-made silence, secretly
underneath the mystery of struggle,
another world is born.

In my time of

When I see the road by night
Glittering and chill
I think of Pierre Curie
Call your name, palaver
There's this scarf I have
Black and long
And I look out for it
Brushing up against the car fins
A little closely
Sweet Izzy Duncan
Full-thighed dances to mind
Dancing away to join you
And then there's
Wayward son
Carrying on
Don't know if we'll meet up
When I'll have skidded, glided, elided
Forgive me for going
Into such detail
This is not yet about me

Foolish Hearted

In the middle of my country,
I un-earthed my heart, carried
it in my hands to the sea;

overnight its roots shriveled,
dried like scab on old wounds.

I laid my heart in the sands,
the foamy surf caught it like
a small, pink shell or stone,

floating for a moment, then
submerged and disappeared.

Years went by before I found it
washed up on a lonely shore;

it's roots were long and large,
its body filled with stories,

bloated to the point of rupture
by what it finally learned:

no matter where your heart is,
it knows where it belongs.
Burden of Time

We bumped into each other on the small dark trail I always took when I was tired of mankind.
'Pardon me son,' the frail man whispered like leaves rustling.
'It's ok the way here is narrow,' I replied impatient to move along. He hesitated.
'Please spare a moment son?' he begged. I sighed and stopped.
We faced each other on the small trail suspended for seconds in the same time and space.
'Thank you,' we said at the same time after a moment.
Then we left on our opposite sides of time.

le corps

"Le corps est le lieu de tous les marquages, de toutes les blessures, de toutes les traces. Dans les chairs s'inscrivent les tortures, les interdits des classes sociales, les violences des pouvoirs, dispersés mais jamais abolis. Aujourd'hui, seuls les exclus créent. Car c'est leur corps qui parle, énonce le refus. Le cri NO FUTURE - si ce futur est le présent continué - est cri d'espoir." Michel Journiac.

Wide-Awake and Weary

I am sleeping. Ceaseless
horizon. The slowness of
a stone. Gray steel bars
of silence welded into night.

It's said there is a river,
black, whose banks are built
from dying stars, waiting
is a boat of bone to take us

where the lifeless live.

I am a sleeper more than
I am wide-awake and weary.
Here is my three-headed dog
who has not seen the sky or sun

here are my bloodless wings
white and pale as ivory, folded
down. Let me be a memory, a thin
laced curtain, a speck of dust,

forevor sleeping, a child whose dreams
are swallowed by the darkness.



YOU    i think you gotta revise that cookie thing. dont you? yes you do. well   how     revise the vise speaking of ,, the vice of grip,  they vice grip ,, the city grip the only one  to vice yr  presidency as wits do wallop their saying being

take that word fosting for example ,, what is that? a slip of ,,
of the tonguing? ,,



shes not juss any gal who cookies her beats down the gingerbread scoopyadig? shes willin'taplayanytime day and night. gotta a garter belt a footthickwide kickyerarse with it too. slang her's game, whipping fosting what was that word, coming like abeard down the dime store paperback of her willin' desire not like any sucker but any one at all was shovedto herpermiter of self. busted by ghost and no one. shes as likely to be had as spent.pained by gathered geese. a current theme'o mine.
O my cookie shuaga where's yer sweet label I dont mean labile or labia but the princess of your thighs


a cowl of flesh
thistle bone woven
into the shoulders
a garrotte of pigiron
turned round the spine
the day they spoke of came
in shuddered whispers
from the seabed below
shoulders nickered
the spine shackled
in pigbone

Metaphysics of Art

“The artwork must be born, excuse the grotesque expression, from the most vivid tripes of the individual, yet freed to the utmost from this viscerality in the end. That's the recipe, but it is difficult to apply”.

Stanislaw Ignacy Witkiewicz

Stuyvesant Bee, Volume 1, Issue 69


The Existence of Moths

Because I know
we're free to choose
joy or violence

I do not suffer
as I should.

Imagine hovering
above the garden like
mist or moth; the gate,

the high road
filled with stones-

not a bitter path.

What can this mean?
Certainly, the absence
of the heart is flight

and just as quickly,
the carefree moth departs.

Orange Light

If even once I stop
to feel, I am closer

to dying.

A thunderstorm rolls
over the horizon, upturned

my face absorbs its darkness.

I recognize a shadow
in the window; how it grew

then broke apart.

I cannot learn to live
forevor; follow me into

the cold, black night.

In the morning, mountains
in the distance, clouds

dripping orange light.

Staid Plaintiff

A doctor, a dodge, a fulcrum: all these and radiant choirs overstepping viscous marshes where onward flows the march of time. Or lately, the fading seizes a new set of nouns

Cheerful rejoinder seethes in the panic of another partly closed door. These are people, in our neighbourhood and drama. And these are friends, or else.

That sense of family that doesn’t quite work instills this native tongue-lashing. There was a disappointment to be gained, and a newsworthy loss, more or less. The more would be a staining that could apply. The less would be a node left behind

What arches over the testy remains of this juncture but the spotted title of leaving? We are turned around in emphasis, and feel hurt by little shards placed indiscreetly into our skin.

We have no time to care for having the time to care. We have been hurt by a leveling and the income of expanse. Humans are just the way they are, reporting their wages in rapt gaming, and still need a hug. Few hugs can be saved in this climate; the weather of politics wears us down.

When books end, a space opens. This is not to tease us, we have work to do. The human complement attains its mar, studiously vying for an effective resumption

No one wants to stay within that boundary, we all want to resist. Resistance is verbal, most times. We feel a loss, like a family. It can happen to anyone, not just our own falling tone.

The doctor is increment in some ladder effect. The dodge is extremes taken for function. A fulcrum is our basis, which we should honour with the name of our friends. The rest is a sentence, which hangs over our heads.

haiku for the flu

Leaves and clouds galore
Falling, fading like old skin
Pause to let Death in
The world
Isn't dying;
Just falling

Of Stars and Wolves

Look to the wolf for ideas. How to
spend your time creeping through darkness

towards the nimble hearted who will leave
this world in nature's belly.

Once, I believed I was made of stars;
poor, sad shining light swallowed by wolves

each time they howl. And beauty was
a yellow eye that caught the moon,

held it in its claws and mouth,
caught the deer, the shivering mouse,

the wavering gold-throated bird
without a sense of grief or guilt.

Can we help but wonder of visible life
as if the unseen, the subtle illusions

of movement (rustling leaves, distortion
of light, the hidden, invisible parts)

may not exist at all?

'The Old Copy'

The old copy was damaged by water.
Still, I savoured the words
and discovered your prayer of fellowship:
no water drenching party or flesh fancy.
Even the best of intentions are often awkward to carry;
a tear dropped on a festival day is no different from any other.
all the wonderlust is cased in dire dependencies.
The call to ruin, the call to reward.
Nothing means much for more than a moment.
Somehow, the thought of someone writing today,
makes me remember how I loved that damaged thing.
The water damaged never mared the words on the page.

The Doom Day Parade

The doom day parade
Is moving down a downtown street past the library celebrating the birthday of TS Eliot
And the population is gathered with their children’s hands full of balloons
The nuclear bombs will bloom
The napalm will fly to bar-b-q the flesh of men and pets that aligned themselves with them
The missiles are aimed at the eye of a dragonfly
The doom day parade is only for human
Although it will change everything that commands man, it will kill trees as a happenstance
But the bees take no notice as if they can do without man, they go about their business as it regards flower
Look mom! There’s a bomb, can I ride it?
The doom day parade is full of high school bands
Playing the music of the last man to stand
Look mom! The generals in their uniform, can I ware one, can I!
The little boys cry out to be apart of the festive deeds
The doom day parade is moving through history
It is our story of the final destruction writ by the war mongrels
The doom day parade is coming down your neighborhoods; tanks, bombers and new M-16s gleam in the sunlight
Look mom a machineguns, can I have one, can I!
The children cry with excitement in their eyes
The doom day parade is populated with clowns with large over size shoes, a large red nose and baggy cloths
They are handing out claymores shaped candy, rocket launcher water guns and plastic G I Joes to the children of the parade goers

The last time love slapped me then wrapped me in its arms
I was about to cum, but there was none to hum the sensual delight of taunt flesh tight and dark beyond the tan of lighter men

The last time love pushed me over the edge I was repeating what I thought that I heard about two being one in the heat caught beneath the bed spread where the stain in the sheet looked like the continent of Africa

The last time love ran me down I was playing the down low in full drag with my prick in a splinter made of two twigs from an old fruitless mulberry tree had popped its nut in a cry of hallelujah

The last time love in me found a safe harbor to propagate its meaning I was caught sucking the tail end of a bum on the run for the rape of his son

The last time that love demanded money for its service done I had to rob the bank of my heart to pay the price of one night of joy

The last time that love held hostage my desires I sold my sperms to the highest biter who demanded that I cum in a jar in a tiny room full of hairless Asian boys playing with their interracial toys

The last time that love disrobed me I was a shame of my own nudity, it frightens me to be so bare with my graying pubic hair course and the dark rough tone of my skin

The last time love made me a prisoner my escape was betrayed by a kiss and a kiss did steal the breath from my lips and a kiss did wound the giving nature of my hands

The last time that love tried to school me I was dumb founded by its lessons of the common love for the common good fought for by the priest that molest the boy doing Gods business in the church of the profaned heart.

A Souvenir

Bring what you have
to the edge of our bed;
your hands filled with stones
and shells- a souvenir.

I have no place
in the natural world,
the world you struggle to
design. See, there are no roots

to grasp the soil, no vertical
rows of blooming vine. Perhaps
I am the fallow field, quiet, cold
and empty. And of my soul, memento

of the passing years, what glory
will it grow, when it is worked
and tilled and planted?

3 noviembre 2008

darkness begins a Monday
out of it fell the frost
on plants and objects real
or human-made     why curse
the white sheet on your wind
shield because your ancestors
moved about and chose or not
to settle in this wondrous
place both très chaud et très
froid—here comes winter

the cave of our local history
twice visited for work today
still didn’t look or feel
like home where i should be
winds off the bay of fundy
shook the truck for many hours
as we dismantled recent acquisitions
and hauled them away to storage
limbo before i—dressed in black—
refuled the truck with irving
processed prehuman sea creatures
and my right hand exudes diesel

sun ring (earlier) twice as wide
as divided highway      danish beer
and deep sea scallops await me

Roach Whisperer

counterinsurgency forth
lungfish answering
stoop · relish prayer wisp anthem island
brackish agonist wetwork inkhorn accent
my affable boil
crackling straw
shadows sluice out infirm Ogpu afterbirth

this verse twist about '


'two'hobos walking   after  the sun
cooking on their hot plate
  a friend and me

                                                    in eternity


so button

you will be mouth  (? I dont get this at duffy _ Who will be 'mouth?')
against river as silent teeth peeve its true switchback
      there are narrative slaves at  this tent
saddened by  a truer road 
its boxed in lathe not a knight's
way  but one  weathered by owls and geese  

                               (I don't like this at all but it's okay. not really up to your personages)

_____________________Jill is gonna get   cackle over this one    ~ 
'Shes come to the bed . She s stayed there. Her and here was. It to her funsome . Not ' etcetera

                You are very kind to send me this as I was wrought up and had nothing . Anyhow, someone said you are filthy rich so how can you whatever you pretend to be, write about bums, hobos,vagabonds, tramps, and what not?

        I earn 32,000 in 8 months,   for you that's spending money! I mean, like , that's what you play with , right?

It Was The Last Thing That I Wanted To Do

It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the day as if it was a man in need of sex
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the woman as if she was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the child as if it was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the dog as if it was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the silver maple as if it was an individual
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the sun as if it was a God
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the moon as if it had its own light
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the stars as if they have life.
fanzine, where is thy sting? online the cabbage is only money, but connotation draws more sustenance out of thin grey vocabularies than a rant coming through on shortwave or boborygmoid channels. it’s a screen of dollars & cents. always behind the technological 8-ball, you used to tell me. banish my fears with a wave of your telescope. and another duck down the dark promised alley, into a still darker place—that sign tells you where to go (“they make it nice for us”), washing your palms with light and handing you a bottle of new experience. they’ve got it made. they’ve made it for us to get. a tusk spikes like sound of framing its own understatement. now, as it starts raining, as it does every day, every purpose shown like lightning across the form of space… choked down in a rage. slapped upside the head with calm. they tell you their lies in persuasive rhythms. tonic lulling. “that’s just so unacceptable—how can you pass this off, this kinda hokey spondee-driven shallow text? this weak talk sinks all boats the same. this drink toughens the last pause with a dribble and a praise. drown much lately?” “it has a beat, honey, but it’s not dance music.”

for cliff (the slavedriver!) i love ya

kerbock, seeing more than the
artist saw, easy enough to make
it actual, this is not a painting,
self-portrait badge, a red circle
with nothing in it, this is refer,
what’s your insect, question
postage, siamese twin erotica,
naka beyond, emphasis on the amp,
do you recognize the fruit,
certain things, ye ole eye lamp,
a chance for data to flow,
grown-ups and grown-downs,
this text needs to be set free,
what is all this junk, comprun,
miss peek peetes keens, sixteen
hundred, the generic term for
q-tip, toupee ham, blandname,
tibed, the eskimo car, oneiros,
rough eye know, eye own, bug
fighting, dodgery chryslery,
gorgos, permanent blue sky,
raise cotillion, blithesome,
earning details, handing
paper from person to person,
actually pay your own bills,
shop til you puke, can’t even
do long division anymore,
the beer is gone but the
label remains, ununiversal,
aphesis, telanglectasia, the
sea turns to concrete,
cromlech, readograph, flashe,
emerged in the heyday of


Trust Me

Trust me, when vengeance finds thee out.
All this shall nothing avail thee with out your trust.
In manhood’s vigor I will bring thee
Safely through those leagues of water
That has magnified the seas and won for thee
The blessing that pledge to save thee.
Your requests of a love that last forever and
Your assault of passion shall come near me
To over take me with a province of its own
Now, as then besiege me with your cries for forgiveness.
Be not afraid to touch the prophet’s bones.
The dead men are wise no more toward the prize
That last forever, neither rich in poverty of livelihood
Nor flush with flesh.
Faith wait for you calmly and lovingly to claim your gift.
Haste all this to your heart surely as dead dreams come from an over wrought brain that fight to make thee insane.
Content thyself with the mercy hard won by poets as protectors of the human spirit and Nature as the one true Godhead of the living and the dead for She surely rule all that can be said by the well fed who fill their heads with the knowledge of the dead.
Be you content with the make of your bone, long shall you live with it and wish you no more to be like that man fair of face or this man rich in coins for all thee are made up of the self that thee carry about like no other.
Nature is thy mother, thy maker, thy provider of substance to feed thy muscle and make thee mindful of the working of the Gods, have none before her she is the knowable deity before your eyes, easy to spy, thou can not separate thy self from the bold bounty of her body for all there is to be known is by her precept.

Of Morning, Distant

To be this night,
dark garden of the trees
and stars, this sadness webbed,
a fragile gauze shrinking

in the dying shadows.

Of morning, distant
arc of blue and gold
turns wildly silver-white
as hair, as ice, as wings.

With longing, ripe
and amber as the moon-
to live; shattered as a ray
of light- to die filled

with fire, tears and blood.

waiting for the ultrasound

waiting for the ultrasound

Playing with the Wolfs

Down Fell I, Face to Earth

Down fell I, face to earth
And with great rejoicing among the people a deadly griping it was that took me with cruel torment that tore off my wings and burnt them in the town square.
A great fire roared up to light the heavens and by that light I saw for the first time the faces of my enemies.
My enemies have gathered together and they boast of their strength to overcome me, to bring me lower then the hearts of human that must muck about on earth.
They would have in the heart of the city my corpse to lie like dung on the ground for the passer-by to wonder just what was my crime.
While the battles were afoot news came that the speed of my demise was at hand but I could not let it be so.
I mustered my strength with the wisdom of my muscles behind me and called for a treaty of alliance at large.
Fain would my confederates and friends enroll in my aid still I took the upper hand by speed of being a man of constraining power who love for the battler is legendary for I have fought in the company of uncircumcised children who cheered for my conquest.
The angels that rebel against me care not to doubt that I have been successful against the suicidal act that they wish to use to beat me down, they are powerless to defeat my spirit, my will to live as one in the dark skin of a man.
I fight them to know my father’s sins, by it am I a guilty man but his sins has strengthen my resolve to win for man a place in the heart of the natural God of stone and bark, wind and fire, water and air, such are my cares.
Do not take pity on me nor call me brave as one who battles the angels.
I will bring my enemies low; bring them to nothing, bring them to know me as I go victorious over the bodies of my foes.
The angels have God on their side but I need no such deity as I have nature as my aid, she will defeat their flesh and I shall school their spirits with defeat.

Dancing Round Caules’ Stones

The day Lela met the man in the hat and the harridan’s sister she had a vision that the sky would fall. She stood in front of the harridan’s sister’s knickknack table and stared at the pop-siècle placemats, her eyes twitching like clock-mice. She seized hold of one of the dories and spun the masthead like a pinwheel. She had a vision of children with impossibly small feet dancing round a maypole. One of the dancing children was wearing a flagstaff hat with a toy whistle attached to a chin-string. Another was dressed in a loose-fitting jumpsuit made from sheet music and apple skins. And yet another was wearing impossibly small booties with pinhole tops, her face red with excited exertion. She smelled boiled onions, a familiar smell from her childhood, and fainted, her legs giving away beneath her like wobbly ninepins.

Lela knew a man from Vereeniging Gauteng South Africa who had similar visions, but his were of devils dancing round caules’ stones. There was a man, a very large man, who lived in Meriden Connecticut who had visions of the man in South Africa. And another man, a very small man, who lived in a boathouse in Eschborn Hessen Germany who had visions of visions. A woman in Dunshaughlin Meath Ireland had visions of people having visions, but none of her own. In Most Ustecky Kraj in the Czech Republic a man named Karneval had visions of people who had no visions of their own, but if they did, they would be the visions he had of their visions. And in Kaunas Kauno Apskritis Lithuania a woman with baggy stockings had visions of people who never had visions of their own, but if they did they would be the visions of the large man from Meriden Connecticut who had visions of the man in Vereeniging Gauteng South Africa who had similar visions, but his were of devils dancing round caules’ stones.

i saw

i saw the 1st fall of leaf
not drop
but thud

as i passed its tree
in the warm golden evening

hit the sidewalk
w/ a serious passion

it let go

[witnessed on 9/25/08]

Beautifull Back People in the Life


the liberated puss

The liberated puss / pressed into lint oozing through gauze / some years later your septic vampiric kiss releases a hot gush from my torn jugular / in your grip my feet kick and dance / smearing sticky red on the white tiled floor / my new found somnolent gaze fixes on an advert playing on a security monitor / a family in a silver car winds up a narrow mountain road / winds up my mind / high on adrenaline passed to me via your saliva / I blink and the family in the car is screaming / descending into their seats as though melting / spumes of blood froth upwards across the tinted windows / warm upon my face and into my eyes as you scalp me / rolling back the skin across my bonce / rolling back the prices a smiling mother pats her buttock / black chipped nails tap and scrawl on my exposed skull / I feel you point at my forehead and then with a specially sharpened fingernail cut down the centre of my surface / my reddened face / inane / still staring at the images in the security screen / you peel off my face in strips / cut generously with a blade around the eyes so that it looks like I’m wearing glasses / comical / sat on drying agitated muscle / I hear you laugh / a monkey and a jingle for chocolate milk / glazed / eyeballs rigid unable to cross the abyss to yours / you lower me to the ground / gently / clutching my tattered flapping throat / I can no longer see the screen / just its reflection in a municipal door / mottled / crosshatched with embedded wire / a montaged smear of films I ought to watch / you remove my clothing / damp / soaked in immobilized fear / you remove it in practised routine / Belmondo wraps sticks of dynamite round his head / in the reflection / in reverse / you dig fingers into my flesh / my perineum / and with an upward motion tear off my cock / balls ‘n’ all / I’m aware of a hunched shadow eating from its hands / of images of a boy firing his first shots into reversing footage of the Nazi regime / its atrocities / your stylised slurpings / my maimed face remanents twitch / tauten / eyes stuck to the reflected scenes / you toss aside my half eaten morsel / Joe Pesci smashes a head with a car door / you belch / I feel a splutter of your hunger wetten my chest / you stab in controlled frenzy / horizontal / serrating my abdomen so that I might later be torn in half / you wait panting / Robbin Williams detonates a bomb in a noisy crowd / my intestines erupt / carefully / intact / excavated by your burrowing hands / you crack open my chest / parting waves of bone to dribble soporific spittle upon my heart / asleep in viscera / in a stream of idols / Jeanne Moreau / the girl on the motorcycle / Myra Hindley / you push air / force it from my mouth by squeezing my naked lungs as if in the grip of a passion with another woman / my eyes stiff / fixed / staring into the fantasy spattered with my own blood / obscured with my own blood / and then you must leave me / I feel the breath of the door swing open / then shut / I think I vomit / a film starts in the fragmentary reflection / oh shit / it’s Night of the Demon…
Yes I am
Falling, and
Yadda yadda.

A Position of Idyll Repair

In this rain, these crests of trees flip with famished response. These trees, our own, set tone. Water rolls the streets to marshes, marshes are set. A word sets on every point of the travelogue, even as the grey clouds lift three inches, just to impress. Stevens, the greatest poet in corpulent times, dares to drink a martini. His children, thousands of them, settle in petals. Leafy daydreams sputter thru the window. There is an image left behind, one that dazzles with last humour. A backache becomes the essence of New Hampshire, and ripples of auroras castigate sameness as the discussion turns on a jet. What does language do when everyone is quiet? A dusting of rain thru the day and into morning a baroque event, no doubt, we would watch for more. A love of such and such, then people thru the years, then what course does our dance take? It is curious to remain standing while others take their seats. Their seats are prominent responses. Each step with the drum, intended, becomes a cooling refreshment of utter means. We are not captivated, only equipped. Subtle movements in the trees bespeak the squirrels and merrily, but the day is not over. A dream of something effective, a talk with the devil itself, a fire in one’s range of vision, all this prepares a base for the effort up the mountain. Yes, Everest in the distance, just as trashed and facing as ever. We loom inside, with extreme sense, and a poem by Stevens. His cooling stare is so professional and kind. Avalanches mean nothing compared to him.

Nervy Mention of Autumn's Arrival

Wallace Stevens wrote after all, then after all again. It was spots on the wall that made the most. A few partitioners relayed their facts, gifted in a place where marshes collect the dew and mist. Rains became the same expected, from southern winds across the bold and heartfelt ocean. Which is to say, a poetry, guided fondly, ran into being. Being here, telling something posed and remaining, the poet, this one, tried some lurches. We who read, or thought we did, popped into the bounty, for seconds on end. The poem really urged a more pliant remorse. This remorse is dandy today, with marks drawn across the state of Connecticut to indicate that the economy sucks. It has always sucked, deeply, imperiously, with goods and margin. Now, friends, it sucks with wolfish chuckle. Stevens did not exactly mean this, but he must have meant something with all those words aligned just so. Meaning is a force of nature, like a hurricane named Kyle. Yes, such a statement is ludicrous, Kyle is too odd a name to place on weight, bsut Stevens worked out his messages with a deliberation that seems easy to respond to. We should vote him some award, for being so perfectly acceptable. He numbers one of many, but still resumes his clauses. He could have lived in Worcester, had he only tried.

No to Lisboa!

Car Theft

As I sit here
How my car
Got in that

Has go to
Be following

Bad to the Bonestell

The fountain of resentment
is oasis in despair,
the desert's final testament
and ego's thorny choir.

Suppose each thwart gave off
flickers of tender charm;
suppose our friction taught
how to unfurl in time...

First Day

The first day of fall comes foggy to St. Louis.
The Starling are gathering in flocks to fly south over the roofs of red brick homes as the squirrels are storing away their cash against the hunger of winter.
The nights grow cooler and the garden is going to seeds as flocks of geese over head honk their formation of V.
On que the leaves of city trees are loosing their green, dropping their dressing to the delight of children who kick the fallen spoils that hid the sparrow nest nested among the branches of oaks, silver maples and cottonwoods growing at the bank of Boone Pond where the frogs sun themselves.
Today I shall remove the air-condition from the window; all summer long it has served me well but is no longer need to hum its cooling calm into my once heated room.
I shall go into the basement and unpack my sweaters and fall jackets and put away my shorts and thin cotton short sleeve shirts.
Now is the time to start saving for Christmas , its time to get my house in order, to clean the filter of the furnace, to clean out the garden, to change the batteries of the smoke detectors and to can some apples; all ritual of fall.
The sun has risen above the horizon and is busy burning off the fog. The traffic noise from a main thoroughfare near by has increased as people go about their busy work day.
A gray squirrel is running alone the telephone cable strung from pole to pole down the alley. It is time for me to be as busy as bees harvesting the last bit of pollen from the mums and four-o-clocks still in bloom.

Question 67 and 68

The land of the dead is and is not like a prison: we don't have to queue for the phone and we carry our cells with us at all times. It is more about whether the person we want to speak to will be there when we call. And so assuage our loneliness. The ones we are with cannot do this - companionable, yes, but not warm in the way that the living are. Warmth is what we long for because it is cold down here, yes, it's cold way down here. We are haunted by songs that we cannot sing, cannot hear, not even in memory, unless we can make that connection and feel one of those fugitive melodies flood through. Those cold wires, those wireless wires, that blood radio ... please pick up the phone. We have nothing to say but our longing but, and this is where we are companionable beyond measure, do you? Have anything to say? To us? Question 67 and 68. There is one child left and a world to carry on, to carry on.


Now that it's
Officially Fall
Let's slow down.

Giant Bible Horoscope for Life

the shudder of the utter
satcybanzu light
the jack is on back order
offstage there is falling

read by lantern
the beginning of all your days
we knew it at the time as
running out of this & that

solitary figure by the road
standing with predatory intentness